Waitress
by RukiaRae
Summary: "What's someone like you doing working this far out of the city?" he asked. "I could ask you the same thing," she retorted. "I don't do well in cities," he replied tersely. "Neither do I, apparently," she countered easily, returning her attention to taking her pies out of the oven in hopes of discouraging him from asking why.—Diner AU Rae/Speedy/Robin eventually a triangle
1. First Day on the Job

**So, um, for those of you who read Exquisite, (which I assume will be a lot of you if you're into this story) will probably think, 'hey, why are you starting this now? Finish up that one!'. And I will.**

**But here's the thing. **

**1. I had a good portion of this saved away in my files—I mostly just tweaked and revamped it.**

**2. I have been working on Exquisite. I currently have 2,000ish words for chapter 6 (it's going to be a fun chapter) but I need to figure some things out. It's not quite _there _yet. But I haven't forgotten about it.  
**

**So...um, please don't kill me! haha**

**Anyway, this one was really inspired by the film Waitress—especially the setting and the jobs they each do (and the pie inventions. In fact, I don't bake so most of those will be lifted from the film). I'm also pretty much going to have the owner from Joe's Pie Shop be the owner in this fic too. But the storyline will be different (and hopefully less depressing). **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Waitress or the Teen Titans.**

**Hope you all enjoy!**

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First Day on the Job

She pulled at the loose strands of her bun, willing them to stay in place—for _just a few more moments— _so that she could make a good first impression. Still, no matter how much she fiddled with her hair pins, a few stray hairs managed to fall out. She sighed, clearly she was not going to win. And she was probably only making it look worse. Slamming the sun visor—_and more importantly, the mirror on it—_up and out of sight, she grabbed her purse and, getting out of her car, slammed the door closed a bit too violently. Taking a calming breath, she went and knocked on the locked, wooden door.

"You must be the new girl!" the waitress called as she opened up the door.

"Yep, that's me."

"My name is Karen," she said, extending her hand.

She nodded, extending her hand to meet Karen's in a handshake. It wasn't until an awkward moment later—_with Karen's deep brown eyes looking at her expectantly_—that she realised Karen was waiting on her to give her name.

"My name is Rachael," she said hesitantly, hoping it would take people as long to remember her name as it would for her to remember theirs. After all, she was trying to get used to other people's names and her own simultaneously, a fact she hoped wouldn't show.

She, in an effort to dispel the sudden nervousness that washed over her—_after all, she was no spy—_looked over the woman before her. Karen wore a light blue vintage waitress dress that actually went well with her chocolate skin, making her look like she'd stepped out of an iconic fifties diner. To her dismay, she noted the woman wore white sneakers—_attire that she wished she'd known was acceptable_— that matched the ruffles protruding from the ends of her powder-blue dress.

(She frowned at the prospect that she might have to wear that..._ensemble._)

Despite her frown, the girl's smile didn't falter, "Come on, I'll show you around."

Thankfully, she didn't comment on her own ensemble—she was quickly realising that she was way too overdressed. And she thought that black suit pants and a button up lavender blouse _without _a suit jacket was _dressing down. _(Guess not around here.)

She tried not to feel awkward as she was introduced to the other employees—who also were a step away from wearing casuals. The tall redhead was wearing slacks and a powder blue polo top (untucked, she noted with dismay). The guy next to him, with ebony hair that hung like curtains around his face—_framing his dark blue gaze perfectly, much like someone else she knew but with colder eyes_—also wore the same polo, indicating that it was part of the male uniform. She tried to focus on the names and the introductions, however, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was very, very out of place.

(Their—_gawking—_stares really didn't help.)

_What did I get myself into? _she wondered for the millionth time.

She looked down, picking at invisible lint from her blouse as she tried to look inconspicuous. Finally, the introductions were over and—_Karen?—_led her to the ovens where she would mostly be. She allowed herself a small smile—the work station brought back fond memories of her own journey. She recalled vividly the day that Victor finally announced that he'd had it with her and Kori's concoctions. Especially since he moved in with them during their fourth year of university. He spent the year teaching them how to cook and bake.

Unfortunately, she never did get the hang of cooking, however, baking was another matter. She fell in love with how _easy _it was to mix a few ingredients and, half an hour later, have a pastry that tasted heavenly. It wasn't long before she realised that she could also twist the recipes, making them _hers. _She could make pies that reflected her mood or her memories. It was like edible art—despite the fact that her creations never lasted long, they still had the same effort, love and care poured into them as any other traditional art. Plus, she kind of enjoyed the fact that they weren't permanent.

She wouldn't have to look back and cringe at something embarrassing or be worried about revealing too much of herself. Most people saw food as...well, food. They would not think of her moods and thoughts when eating their pastries. Not to mention, she liked the idea that people would enjoy it more than traditional art because it didn't last long. Because it wasn't permanent—like the Mona Lisa—people knew they had to enjoy it that much more.

Lost in her reverie, she barely heard—_Karen? She really needed to learn names, especially the name of the woman helping her—_say, "Well, I think that's all. You can start today or tomorrow, it's up to you."

"I'll start today," she offered, eager to be doing something. Running was no good if you didn't keep busy too.

"Wonderful. Also, sweetie, if those shoes get too uncomfortable, feel free to take them off, okay?" she offered, gesturing to her short black pumps, "Also, I'll get you your uniform."

She couldn't help but groan after her companion left. Sure enough, the woman returned with a blue dress that was almost identical to her own.

"Here you go. This is the smallest size we've got, but I think it'll fit."

She took the items and blurted, "Do I really have to wear this?"

She cringed. Well that was insensitive. Thankfully, she just smiled, "Unfortunately, you do. Company policy since you'll be acting as a waitress too and you'll be out front."

"Out front?"

"With the customers. 'Where image is important', or some nonsense like that."

"Ah," she replied, glad for this incident. She must've missed the fact that she would also be waiting on people during the introduction. It was all like a whirlwind of new information.

"Hey, if you need anything, just ask, okay?"

She nodded.

"Oh, and your name-tag will come in later this week. We put them on at the beginning of our shifts and leave them overnight with the uniforms," she explained, "You can take home your uniform to wash it, however, I recommend leaving your name-tag here. It gets lost so easily and if the owner is in, he won't be too happy."

"Great, thanks," she replied, watching the girl put her name-tag on. The black font read _Karen. _

Well at least one thing was going right.

"Oh, wait!"

"What's up?"

"Where are the restrooms? Sorry, it's a lot to take in," she offered, realising that she _ought _to know where they were from the tour.

"No problem. Just make a left when you leave the kitchen."

She nodded, making her way to the restroom to change into her uniform. And although she hated it—_the colour, the fit, the way the cheap fabric scratched against her skin—_she was grateful that she looked less like an outsider. Though her pumps still gave her away. _Traitors. _

Running her clothes to the trunk of her silver car, she returned to the kitchen area. She could already tell that she would like her workspace. Because she was the baker, she had the ovens to herself. Near them was a stainless steel workbench with all of the ingredients stacked neatly on its shelves. She marvelled at the space, and, with one last wistful glance at the _cleanness, _she kicked her shoes off to a corner and contemplated what to make.

Perhaps she could channel her nerves into a pastry? She frowned, 'Nervous Pie' didn't sound like something anyone in their right minds would eat.

"What're you thinking about so hard over there, Pastry Chef?"

Startled, her head snapped up to the door where the red-head was leaning casually against the frame, smiling at her. Almost condescendingly.

(She wanted to slap that smirk off his face. She struggled not to jerk back at the _violence _of her thoughts. She rarely felt this put off by someone.)

It would not do to make enemies on her first day she had to remind herself.

"Thinking about what to make," she confessed, looking back into the counter's shiny surface—_and away from his infuriating, belittling smile_.

He shrugged, "Don't you have a cookbook? Just randomly open a page and make that."

Clearly this one didn't share her views on baking.

She sighed in exasperation, "I haven't used a cookbook for three years. I'm not about to break that streak now."

He looked surprised at her admission, "You don't use a cookbook? How—?"

She shrugged, hoping her next statement wouldn't sound too prideful, "I've developed a sense for what goes well together through trial and error. So I mix and match what I want. Sometimes it's just the number of possibilities that's daunting."

Who was she kidding? Her swelling pride had definitely burst through somewhere early on in that statement. But, she had every right to be. She worked hard...

...to be a pastry chef in the middle of nowhere.

(She huffed at the direction of her thoughts. So she was taking a small detour, no harm in that, right? She tried to ignore the thoughts sprouting up that told her that she didn't even _study _to be a chef. Or want this job.)

"So how do you decide what you want to go together, then?" he asked, the curiosity in his voice at odds with his nonchalant, relaxed stance.

She sighed, she wasn't ready to explain to anyone—_let alone this jerk_—her ideas on baking. That she used her emotions to help her decide how she wanted the food to taste. How each of her _creations _were designed to evoke a certain feeling.

"I eventually just do," she stated firmly, letting him know that, even if he _did _realise this was a lie, that he was not welcome to pursue the subject further.

He shrugged, "Good luck with that, New Girl."

She almost yelled at him _'My name is Raven' _but caught herself in time. Thankfully, his back was to her and he didn't notice her mouth open to say something before snapping firmly shut. She _really _needed to remember why she was here. No amount of hair dye and name changes could help her if she couldn't remember to _keep up her persona. _

She frowned, finally settling on her pastry for the day. _A bittersweet past. _

She would combine blackberries, blueberries, and raspberries into a bowl, mashing them together. She would add some sugar to the mix, perhaps a splash of citrus, before folding 70% dark chocolate over them. She would roll the dough of the pie tops in sugar, adding a little bit more sweetness to balance out the bitter chocolate taste.

She smiled, gathering her ingredients and getting to work—making several individual pie tins. For variety, she also made pain au chocolat, a pastry she'd learned from one of Kori's French cookbooks.

"Damn girl, that smells...unf," came Karen's voice as she waltzed in to check up on her newest employee.

She chuckled.

"Mind if I have one of these?" Karen asked, greedily looking at the small pies—_the test batch_—that were coming out of the oven.

"Sure, these are the testers, anyway. You can offer the others some too," she offered, plucking one from the tray for herself.

"You and I are gonna get along so well," she exclaimed, taking the tray to offer the other boys a sample.

"I hope so," she mumbled to herself after Karen had left as she wistfully took a bite from the pie. Bittersweet, like she wanted it to be.

Bittersweet, like her past.

But her future?

Well, that had yet to be seen.

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**Hopefully the ending wasn't too corny. ****Thoughts? **

**Please drop me a review!~**


	2. Judgement

**Meh. Another chapter. Yepyep, on a Rae/Roy binge.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Pit. Really awesome pulled pork if you happen to be travelling through Iowa.**

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_Judgement_

He didn't like her. Sure she was hot, but she was also one of them. She hailed from the heart of Jump City, making her a snotty, uptight, close minded urbanite.

Hell, the outfit she wore on her first day as a pastry chef was case in point. It was a messy job and she'd worn a _suit_. Like wearing jeans was beneath her no matter what she was doing.

And, as he suspected, she took her job way too seriously. It was like she had a stick up her ass as she sat there trying to figure out what to make. As though it were more extravagant than food for hungry patrons who couldn't give a damn what she made and probably wouldn't order much of her shit come lunch rush.

He knew she'd leave soon and he couldn't wait for that day.

"Hey, wanna try one of Rachael's pies?" Karen offered, thrusting the tray in his face. He nearly refused, however, she was giving him 'the look'.

It was her managerial bordering-on-mother stare that told him _'be-nice-or-else.'_

As the manager, she hated discord among her employees, whom she viewed as family. Unfortunately for him, the New Girl seemed to worm her way into Karen's good graces already.

Bitterly, he snatched one of the small pies fully intending to take a bite then loudly proclaim it was shit before throwing it away. However, when he took a large bite, he found himself literally unable to say anything suitable to the present moment.

No, he was lost in thought. He was suddenly reminded of his senior prom night. He'd rented the limo, organised the group of his track friends, borrowed his tux and picked up her corsage. Everything started out perfectly as his girlfriend of two and a half years, Jade, arrived looking spectacular. They were all in time and took loads of photos, the parents all crooning over their young sons and daughters looking "all grown up".

They all went to dinner at the diner—it used to be the place for late-night grub of all kinds-before heading out to the prom. Most years, the dance was hosted at their school, however, that year in an effort to economise, they'd merged their prom with another school not too far away.

Exiting the short stretch of highway, the limo's engine promptly died. All the guys tried to take a look at it, however, they soon realised there was no fixing it. They called a towing company from the city, however, he couldn't promise to be there before 1am. The dance ended at 2.

Just as they were about to call their families, however, another kid from the track team asked the limo driver to play some music from the radio. He blasted it and they all had their own impromptu prom in the small patch of grass, laughing and dancing, bonding even more as a team. And while they enviously listened to other people's accounts of the dance that Monday at school, they were all pretty happy with how their night had turned out. _The night before everything changed. _

He smiled wistfully at the memory, surprised that he was reliving it as he ate pie. It sounded like a horrible joke, however, he couldn't really explain it. He had no idea what triggered the memory—_so vividly too, as though it were yesterday_.

He finished the pie in another two bites, silently admiring the power it held. So maybe she did take her job too seriously but she was damn good at it.

He turned, making his way to the oven room—_to apologise? Commend her? The hell if he knew—_and stopped.

She was there, her back to him, as she leaned against the metal countertop, her fingers lazily tapping its sides as she was lost in her own thoughts—_memories_.

He frowned, feeling bad seeing her all alone, dwarfed by the ovens who were her only companions. And although he didn't like her—_didn't trust her not to leave when something better came along, as it inevitably would for her_—he felt wrong ignoring her. He didn't like to see women suffer and—_whether he liked it or not_—that extended to her.

"You know, you can always go out there, it's where most of us hang out before we open the doors," he offered, unsure of what else to add.

She nodded, "Thanks."

Her voice was effervescent, almost light enough to make him question whether he'd heard it at all. Clearly, she was thinking about her own bittersweet memory_—_though hers must've been more bitter than sweet.

"That may have been the best thing I've ever eaten," he tried, approaching her slowly as though she were a skittish animal. He stopped next to her, leaning against the counter in the same way.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he asked, "So what's someone like you doing working this far out of the city?"

"Someone like me?" She prompted.

"You know what I mean," he snapped, wishing he hasn't come to speak to her, "City born and raised. Well educated. Taught to think about climbing the corporate ladder, not being a pastry chef in some out-of-the-way diner."

She flinched at the acid in his voice.

(And maybe because he was a little right.)

Still, he refused to cave, "So, again, I ask. What's someone like you doing working all the way out here?"

"I could ask you the same question," she retorted.

He frowned, her deflecting answers were doing nothing to help her.

"What do you mean?" He asked gruffly, his unhappiness masked partially by curiosity.

"I mean...you're also clearly well-educated. What're you doing back?"

Now it was his turn to flinch.

"I don't do well in cities," he replied tersely.

"Neither do I, apparently," she countered easily, turning her attention to removing her pies from the oven in a vain attempt to discourage him from asking why.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She sighed, her shoulders sagging—whether with the weight of memory or the large pie tray she was transporting to the countertop, he couldn't say, "Just that I've managed to screw up all of my prospects within a hundred mile radius."

He shot her a quizzical look, "So you're running from something?"

She frowned, "I would call it laying-low."

(She still wasn't making eye contact.)

"Same difference," he snapped, suddenly feeling a new wave of hostility.

She gave a gusty sigh, "Now what?"

"What happens when you no longer need to run? Why then? Do you just leave?"

She shrugged, "If I feel like it, why not?"

Finally, her gaze met his. Fire lurked under the surface of her striking violet eyes—a challenge if he ever saw one.

"So...it wouldn't matter that you're the best chef we've ever had or that the people here will grow to like you and count you as a fixture in their lives? That doesn't matter to you?" He interrogated, his gaze fuming at the flippant girl before him.

"I never said that," she stated evenly, removing another tray and shooing him aside so she could lay it next to the other tray of cooling pies.

"Then what?" He snapped.

"I said I'd leave if I felt like it. If I like this job, then I'd stay."

He huffed, "You're all the same. You define success and happiness by your pocketbook."

A small ghost smile appeared on her face, "Ah, I didn't realise. Thanks for explaining that one to me."

He growled, almost ready to throttle her until she continued, "I meant what I said. If I like it here, I'd have no problem settling. But I will not stay here if I'm unhappy."

She shrugged, finally removing her tray with the warm, flaky mouth-watering pain au chocolat on it.

"And what do you think about it here so far?" He asked, forcing himself to calm down. Still, he couldn't help it. They'd had too many people come and go—_too many disappointments for Karen_—for him to be anything other than thorough. He hated the glimmer of sadness in Karen's eyes when they were abandoned—their last pastry chef case-in-point.

Her gaze flickered up to meet his, her eyes boring into his with an intensity he hadn't even known possible as she stated, "I'm not sure yet. It's a pretty mixed bag."

He frowned. He wanted to tell her why he was acting like an ass, however, just as he was contemplating doing so, Karen nearly skipped in announcing, "First customers of the morning! Let's get to it!"

He followed his chipper manager out to the kitchens, eager to get away from the idea that, if she did leave, it might be his fault.

* * *

The day passed by mostly without incident. Unsurprisingly, the people that tried her items loved them. And many of the patrons were eager to talk to her—to come up with their own conclusions about the new girl. He hated the fact that everyone seemed to take to her so quickly.

(Did they not see that she was merely an opportunist?)

No, the best thing about his day was probably watching her trying to manage in those heels. Sure they made her ass look nice but he couldn't help but will her to fall ungracefully on the floor.

(She didn't. Though it took some effort.)

"Something up?" he heard Karen ask.

"No, why?"

"You've been glaring daggers at Rachael all day. You're usually not so rude."

"I'm not being rude. I just don't like her."

She sent him a hard stare, "You could try to. It's her first day, give her some time before you just make up your mind."

He frowned, unhappy that she was taking the other girl's side.

"You trust too quickly, Bee."

"And if you don't extend some trust, you lose people. If you even want a chance of her staying on permanently, she has to feel invested—part of this family. And you're. Not. Helping."

He sighed, "Fine."

"Thanks," she said, wandering off to talk to the New Girl as she waited for her bus. The bus stop was just across the road and, after 10 years of working there, Ernie waited at the stop a bit longer so that Karen could wait in the diner and walk over when he arrived.

So she passed the time cleaning tables and socialising, usually with him or Garth, who took care of moping the floors and wiping down the kitchen. Today, though, the New Girl was helping her wipe down the tables and stack the chairs. Which he grudgingly admitted was nice of her.

"Hey, we should totally get some dinner tomorrow night, welcome you to the team and all!" Karen stated enthusiastically, seemingly out of the blue.

"You really don't have to make a big fuss over me," Rachael muttered, her cheeks dusting a light shade of pink as they all looked at her for her reaction.

"I _insist. _It'll be fun."

"I have _so _much to do right now," the girl pressed, "I really couldn't. I have to unpack still."

He was surprised when he blurted, "This weekend we'll all go to yours on Saturday to help you unpack. You'll be done in a day, tops."

Her gaze met his, searching for malice. Upon finding none, she muttered, "I really couldn't ask you all to do that."

"Nonsense!" Karen replied, "We'll make it fun. Besides, if we don't welcome you here, who will?"

She chuckled, finally acquiescing.

After a pause, Karen asked, "Roy or Rachael, would either of you be able to give me a ride tomorrow?"

"Of course," Rachael replied quickly, "Though you'll probably have to act as my GPS."

She laughed, "I'd be happy to."

Her comment earned a small smile from the reclusive girl, who was finally glad to be doing something right.

"So...where are we going tomorrow, then?"

"The Pit," came Garth's level voice from the kitchen.

Almost simultaneously, Roy also answered, "The Pit."

She chuckled, "Ugh, they know me too well. It's nothing too fancy but they have the best pulled pork this side of the Mississippi."

She tilted her head to the side as she regarded them, "Pulled pork?"

"Girl, you've never had pulled pork? You haven't _lived. _Get ready for the greatest experience of your life tomorrow."

The corners of her mouth lifted into a half-smile, "Can't wait."

Karen smiled warmly, glad to finally have another woman on the team. One who was sensible, anyway.

Seeing the bus, she grabbed her things and called, "Don't forget to lock up Garth! I'll see you guys tomorrow!"

She then went about finishing up cleaning with the guys, trying to avoid Roy as much as possible (and was glad when she managed to escape any real conversation with him).

So far she liked Karen. Garth seemed nice, if not really quiet. (Much like herself.)

But Roy...

If there was anything that would spoil her time at the diner, he would be it.

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**Thoughts? I'm not too sure about this one—it's a bit rushed but I wanted to do something mainly from Roy's perspective. I'm thinking of alternating chapter perspectives, though I'm not sure I want to limit my story to that. Meh, we'll see. **

**Please drop a review if you have the chance!~**


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